luck has nothing to do with it
by onceuponamirror
Summary: She's not, by nature, a gambler. If anything, she's quite the opposite. Emma Swan doesn't take risks. She doesn't put everything out on the line. She never expects that kind of payout, especially some cosmic one based on randomly getting lucky. But luck has nothing to do with poker. [[Captain Swan Modern AU]]


She's not, by nature, a gambler. If anything, she's quite the opposite. Emma Swan doesn't _take_ risks. She doesn't put everything out on the line. She never expects that kind of payout, especially some cosmic one based on randomly getting lucky.

But _luck_ has nothing to do with poker.

Poker requires skill and focus and—a little something extra.

Like, say, an ability to read people.

Even now, as she sits in her office, feet propped up on her desk, half a pastrami sandwich shoved in her mouth, she can read the man on the tv screen clear as day. "All in," the portly man says, pushing his chips forward. _Thank god for HD_ , she thinks as she watches a bead of sweat roll down his shiny, bald head.

"Liar!" She shouts at the tv, chunks of bread flying from her mouth. Anyone with half a brain can see he's bluffing.

Ruby happens to be walking past her office just as Emma yells it out, and backpedals, poking her head in. "'Scuse me?" She asks, before quickly taking in the scene. "Oh. You're watching World Series of Poker again."

Sheepishly, Emma swallows her bite of sandwich and smiles. "They're all idiots. I've been watching for like ten minutes and I can already figure out all their tells."

Ruby smirks. "You should go on it. You'd be so good." Before Emma can even roll her eyes to that—she's perfectly happy cleaning house at David's (or when everyone gets tired of her taking all their petty cash, at her local seedy poker club)—Ruby pushes farther into the room, angling for a closer shot at the tv. "Oh, you're watching whats-his-face again? How is Scruffy McHottie doing?"

"Don't you have a girlfriend?" Emma says witheringly.

"Doesn't mean I don't have eyes," Ruby chirps. "Ooh, there he is! Damn. Only he could look good in florescent HD."

Ruby is right, of course, and Emma sighs. Killian Jones. British, scruff for days, and last year's winner. She watches him glance at the bluffing man as he matches the bet, his lips twitching with the ghost of a smirk. Emma flushes and immediately denies she knows why. She forces a blasé shrug. "I'm just studying his technique. He's harder for me to read."

Ruby turns to look at her, red lips pursed. If her eyebrows could feasibly rise past her hairline, Emma thinks they would. "Oh, really? His technique, huh?"

"Shut up," Emma grumbles, throwing a french fry at her friend. Instead of dodging it, Ruby just ducks to catch it with her mouth, chewing with a smile.

"Nice try," she says as she turns on her heel, and it's only after she's gone that Emma realizes she might've not been talking about the fry.

.

For her birthday, David agrees to break his ban on playing poker with Emma so he can throw her a poker party. And even if it wasn't her birthday, he could never really say no to his sister.

He invites the whole gang, and they surprise her by betting one round full of presents. She laughs, face feeling warm at their gesture, as she peeks a look at her hand. "What if I don't win?" She asks, even if she knows she will.

Mary Margaret laughs as she passes by the table. The worst liar Emma has ever met, Mary Margaret never even bothers to play with them anymore (never plays anything more challenging than go fish, really). "You'll win," she says.

She does.

She barely has a second to rake in her winnings before Ruby starts bouncing in her seat for her to open up her gifts. She waits for Mary Margaret to slide into David's lap so everyone will be present, and then tears into them.

From August, a fancy, leather-bound notebook ("So you will stop leaving post-its all over the damn office."), from Mulan and Ruby, a new gun-holster ("Mulan picked it out, if it wasn't obvious."), from Belle, a book about counting cards ("Wrong game, but thanks anyway."), from Henry, the newest Xbox World Series of Poker game ("Typical, but thanks kid."), and from David and Mary Margaret, a hand-knit scarf and coupon written in David's hand for one all-expenses-paid-trip for her car to the mechanic. ("Hey!")

"The Bug runs fine, thank you very much," Emma sniffs, but pockets it anyway. It should probably get a new clutch. Among other things.

After she's unwrapped everything, she notices a small, unassuming envelope left on the green felt table. "What's this one?" She asks, reaching for it.

"That one is from all of us," Ruby says, smiling dangerously. Emma feels her stomach twist a bit at the wolfish look in Ruby's eye, the one she only gets when she's up to something.

Emma rolls her eyes, embarrassed by more gestures of good friendship, but rips it open anyway. She notices a moment too late that Mary Margaret jumps a bit at the way Emma tears into it—she's never been a careful un-wrapper—and Emma realizes that maybe there's something important inside.

What she finds is an airplane ticket.

"The hell?" She breathes, squinting at it. "Am I going somewhere?"

"Las Vegas!" Ruby squeals, throwing her arms into the air so abruptly that Mulan has to dodge to avoid being slapped in the face. "You're going to compete in this years World Series of Poker! It was my idea. We already paid your registration fee and hotel room. All you gotta do is show up and kick ass."

Emma looks up at her friends, her mouth agape. There is _no_ way she's good enough for a international tournament. "But…Henry," she suggests weakly, looking at her son.

"He'll stay with us," David says, raising an eyebrow as if to say _that's the best you got?_

"But…my job."

August just laughs. "I'm your boss and I paid a share, remember? There will still be criminals for you to catch when you get back to Boston."

She feels her resolve beginning to weaken. Those, really, are her only excuses. "But a woman's never won before."

Ruby scoffs, opening her mouth, but Mulan beats her to it, eyes gleaming. "Then all the more reason for you to go."

Well, she can't argue with that.

.

.

It's hardly her first time to Las Vegas. Being a bailbondswoman, she's tracked a fair number of crooks here before—though this will be the first time she visits as a tourist. The flashing glow of the casinos and the throngs of people take on all new meaning once she's not constantly scanning a crowd to match a mugshot. It's so much worse.

This place is crazy and chaotic and buzzing and there's no way she would ever come here again without a clear, outlined purpose. But she's here now, and she has a job to do.

She checks into her hotel without issue, although Ruby did arrange for the concierge to present her with a card that said, "Can't wait for your notes on Scruffy McHottie's perfected _technique."_ The poor, blushing teenager behind the desk had probably been forced to write that after Ruby giggled it into the phone, and she apologizes as best she can before all-but running away.

She doesn't have a whole lot of interest in exploring Las Vegas and she certainly doesn't have any interest in starting the competition off with a hangover, so she settles for an early night of room service and a couple movies. And if her brother is footing the bill, she might as well take advantage.

She checks in with her son before bed, and he texts her back a selfie with his baby cousin, saying all is fine with the Nolans and that everyone is gonna have a viewing party while she's on TV (if even she makes it that far, she thinks begrudgingly) and that he's proud of her.

That helps, at least.

The next morning, the battle begins.

She arrives early, signs in, picks up her number and is escorted to one of the many tables. The employee, a redhead with wild, curly hair the size of a beehive, smirks as she takes her seat. "Don't get many women here," she says in a thick Scottish brogue, smirking at Emma with pride. "Hope ya' do well."

"I will," Emma says, sounding more confident than she feels.

.

She does do well. She does really well, in fact. She's quickly realizing there are fewer thrills than the ones she gets at single-handedly dismantling the fragile masculinity of the men at her tables.

They take one look at her and write her off, which ends up becoming a bit of a strategy. One guy even assumed she was a cocktail waitress and asked for a drink despite the fact that she was sitting down, wearing a sweater and jeans.

Day 1 passes quickly and Emma does more than well enough to pass through the satellite rounds in order for a bid at the main event tables, but by the time she returns to her hotel room, she's exhausted and decides to bypass the after-parties. They'll be going for days, anyway. She flops backwards onto her bed, groaning when her phone immediately starts chirping.

 **have you seen him yet?**

 _No, Ruby_ , she texts back, sighing. _I had to qualify for the main tournament first._

 **not even gonna ask if you did bc i know you did! does that mean you get to b on tv tmrw**

 **text me when you see him! gotta find out if he's that cute in person**

 _I'm here to win, not look for a date. Besides, the only way I'll meet him is if he's my competition, and then I definitely won't be looking for a date. I think you're the one with the crush anyway._

 **just looking out for you but i get it i will stop**

And then, ten minutes later, **but seriously just let me know if he's that cute in person.**

.

It only takes a few hours before Emma realizes she won't be sleeping easily tonight. She doesn't know if it's because she's away from Henry and her bed or if it's nerves at the prospect of not only sitting in front of a live camera for several hours—or if it's the fact that she's starting to think she might actually have a chance at this.

Groaning, Emma resigns herself to the fact that she'll need a night cap _and_ a breather from the confines of her hotel room, so she dresses quickly and heads for the bar. She orders two whiskey neats in a row, and just as she's about to order her third, a smooth, accented voice cuts in. "I'll cover that next one, if you'd like."

She turns slowly, brain already a little addled with liquor. "No thanks," she says, the words out of her mouth before she even gets a look at him. When she does, _well_.

Ruby would freak.

Killian Jones _is_ that cute in person. Cuter, actually. He's got a dimple in his cheek that she's never seen on TV, his hair is rumpled and unstyled, and he is showing _way_ more chest hair than should be legal in the state of Nevada.

"Alright, then," he nods. "Can I still join you?"

She wets her lips. "I didn't come down here trolling for a date," she bites out, hearing Ruby in her head, because _damn_ this man is good-looking _and_ he's her competition. She should probably get out, get out now, but the bartender is already arriving with her next whiskey and his eyes are just so blue.

"Don't recall asking for a date," he smirks, eyes gleaming, belaying his words. "Just a drinking partner. But I can see where I'm not wanted, and I hope you have a lovely evening all the same."

She's always thought that men who pick up lone women in bars tended to be the seediest, but she can't help but think he looks a bit lonely, and hates herself for the thought. Is she really that cliche?

He's about to go—he's already started to walk away, she's already in the clear—when she finds herself saying, "Okay. Just one drink."

When he turns around, his smile is near blinding.

.

"I'm Killian, by the way."

"Emma."

"So what brings you to Vegas?" He asks over the top of a tumbler of rum. (Rum? Who drinks rum anymore?)

She bites her lip and runs a finger along the edge of her glass, choosing her words carefully. "My friends decided I need a vacation," she says finally. There, not a lie.

Something sparks behind his eyes. "Oh? And what is it that you needed a vacation _from_? A horrible ex, perchance?"

She flattens her gaze and he smirks in response. "Subtle. No. Work, mainly," she sighs, relaxing into the truth. "I'm a bailbondswoman." His eyebrows rise high on his forehead, clearly impressed. Usually men are either turned on or off at this juncture, rarely anything in the middle. "Catch crooks and all that."

"Am I to understand you could be carrying a weapon on you right now?" He drawls, low accent curling over the word _weapon_ in a way she thinks should be illegal. If he's trying to seduce her, it's nearly working, which means she only will roll her eyes harder.

"I'm off duty," she deadpans, quirking a challenging brow at him.

"Well, it's an awfully noble profession, love," Killian says after a moment of flitting his eyes across her face, raking her in. Then something darker crosses over his face and he takes a large swig of rum. "Wish I had something more honorable under my belt."

That pours a bit of cold water on her thoughts, remembering that he has now won Texas Hold Em World Series of Poker two years in a row and is gunning for a third. He has a right to know they're competition, doesn't he? She would want to know. She would feel played.

She decides to put the ball in his court. "And what is it that you do?"

He eyes her for a long moment, his head cocked. And then he lifts his glass of rum and swirls it in front of her face. "Can't you tell? I'm a pirate, love."

She wrinkles her nose, and it sinks in that he's deliberately withholding the truth from her. She feels herself going rigid, realizing this must mean he's just looking for a one-night stand and _that_ must mean it's nearing her cue to leave. "Is that code for gambler?"

"Hardly," he scoffs. His expression changes then, becomes something hard to place. Bashful, if she had to guess. His eyes dart away as he scratches behind his ear. "I, ah, run a shipping company out of Boston. Started as a lobster fisherman in Maine, if you can believe it. Built it up with my brother, moved it to Boston, sold off most of our boats, and went corporate. The rest is really rather boring unless you happen to have an interest in international trading laws."

She finds herself gaping at him, absorbing all this. Like the fact that he also lives in Boston and has lived in Maine, which is where she's from, but, mainly, that he isn't lying. He is still withholding the fact that he's here in Vegas for the same tournament she is, but then again, so is she. And he just offered her more than that anyway.

So she finds herself blurting, "I have a son," because she is starting to think she likes him and they can't get any farther without knowing about Henry. She waits for him to run, waits for an excuse. They all have an excuse.

He looks surprised, but quickly swallows it. "Probably too young for Vegas, then."

"Yep," she replies a beat later, eyes narrowing. He doesn't appear to want to go anywhere. "Left him in Boston."

 _That_ gets his attention, his lips lifting in a slow grin that curls across his whole face. "Oh? With his father?"

"His uncle."

"And his father—"

"Out of the picture."

"Shame."

"Not really."

"I agree."

They watch each other for a long moment, and she thinks her expression must match his; lips parted, eyes dilated, both their hands tightly wrapped around their glasses of liquor.

Killian breaks it first, checking his watch. He slides off his stool, tugs on his waistcoat, and then digs into his pocket. He pulls out a large wad of bills and deposits enough cash to cover both of their last couple drinks. "Well, it is getting late," he says, turning back to her.

Emma thinks he's about to invite her up to his room—and she's pretty sure she'd say yes—but instead he reaches into his coat pocket and hands her a business card.

"Call me when you get back to Boston, if you'd like. I would love to have dinner with you. Or coffee. Or take you and your boy sailing. Or all of the above, preferably," he says, grinning at her. Emma smiles softly at that, looking down at his card; few men would ever want a thirteen year old chaperone on a first date. "And I hope you make it to my table tomorrow."

Her eyes shoot up, mouth dropping open. "Wait, you knew?"

He shrugs noncommittally, but the action belies the smirk he's wrestling with. "Oh yes. That's why I came over here tonight. Noticed you today. Thought I had to meet the lass who's kicking ass."

"But—"

"Ah, ah," he raises his hand. "I know that means you know who I am as well, but we had a perfect night tonight. Let's end it here, if you don't mind. And tomorrow, if you make it to my table, you can take any… _frustrations_ you might have out on me." She feels chills at the way he says the word _frustrations_ , and wants to punch him for it. Or maybe kiss him. Probably kiss him.

" _When_ I make it to your table," she corrects, jutting out her chin, "you can count on it."

His eyes are gleaming with blatant desire. "Mm. Good luck then, love," he says, starting to walk away. He walks backwards, never taking his eyes off her.

"Luck has nothing to do with it."

He laughs, shrugging, hands in his pockets. "I don't know, lass, I'm feeling pretty lucky right now."

.

.

She doesn't win. But neither does he.

The winner is another woman, much to Emma's relief, a fellow blonde with a fishtail braid: Elsa, a quiet Norwegian woman with the stone-coldest poker face Emma has ever seen. She spends the entire competition with a concealed expression and it's only when everyone else lays down their cards with a groan that she breaks into a wide grin.

Emma is a bit disappointed, of course, but watching the way Elsa is immediately overwhelmed by press and flashing bulbs, she also feels a bit relieved. She'll have to work herself up to that part.

Elsa emerges from a crowd of reporters to shake the hands of everyone else at the final table. When she gets to Emma, she smiles gently, genuinely. "I hope to see you next year, Emma. I look forward to another woman taking my title."

"You bet on it," Emma replies, grinning at Elsa before she turns away. Emma watches as she's attacked by a smaller redhead, hugging her and jumping up and down.

Killian sighs next to her, wrapping his arm around the back of her chair.

Distantly, she wonders if her friends and family can see them on TV right now, sitting side-by-side, her head coming down to rest in the crook of his neck. Normally, it would take at least 4 dates for her to feel comfortable with this gesture, but there's something about him that puts her at ease. "So we didn't win," Emma says, exhaling.

She can't see it, but hears the grin in his voice. "Don't know about that."

Emma raises her head to look at him, and finds her hand cupping his face. "Guess we'll just have to practice some more," she says.

And then she kisses him.

.

.

Her phone has about twenty missed calls from Ruby (and one from David) and a dozen texts that are exclusively full of question and exclamation marks.

She ignores them all, but finally sends back one response when she lands in Boston: a photo of them on the plane, Killian asleep, in a neck pillow, nose buried in her shoulder.

 _Cuter in person._

.

.

.


End file.
